


Golden Sunset

by AiTaiga



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, F/M, Femdom, Pegging, Safe Sane and Consensual, Shibari, Size Difference, im a sucker for after care, im a sucker for fluff tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 10:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20445527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AiTaiga/pseuds/AiTaiga
Summary: Momoe, an Ul'Dahn courtesan teachers her protege about being a good pet.(It's filth it's just filth.)





	Golden Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Marcy for letting me write her beautiful boy!!   
and thank you to Momoe's player for letting me write her too!  
and for letting me write some not-so-gentle femdom!

“Are you going to be a good boy for me?”

Long, claw tipped nails drag through his thick braids, full of gentle adoration and filthy promises. They scrape gently against his scalp, catching slightly in his locks and tickling just above his horn.

Her lips pull into a smile dripping with black cherry flavored poison. The nails of her other hand trace the line of his throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows thickly. Their gentle coercion coaxes his head up to look at her, his defiant stare meeting her smouldering, serpentine leer.

He looks so pretty on his knees, with his vibrant eyes traced with gold and dark ink. Her thumb smears the violet makeup on his lips, ruining the picturesque beauty that she’d so painstakingly painted on him but a bell ago.

“No.” His voice is too deep, too proud, and his goofy grin taunting.

Her smile falters, then it stretches enough to bare a glimpse of teeth against her dark skin. Gentle caresses tangle deep in his braids, snapping his head back by her grip on his roots. She’s suddenly sinking down on him, draping herself over his chest like a dark veil, devouring him in her glare.

“Then we will have to retrain you, won’t we?”  
—

Baatu is so pretty all strung up in her webs. The ropes coil around him, drowning him in deep red as if the roots of some wicked tree had claimed him. They twist his arms behind his back, and perfectly hoist his hips to put his ass on a salacious display.The height keeps him braced on his toes, so that even with the dancer’s grace, he struggles to keep from swinging by his binds.

It’s shocking that the ceiling beam can hold his weight, but she had not a doubt in her weaving. His muscles bunch and flex against the restraints,obsidian tail whipping back and forth with the effort. She circles around him with a predator’s pace, sizing up her meal until she stops before him. As a kindness, she’s donned his favorite outfit of her’s; The silk robes are far too big for her sleight frame, draping off of her in an artful dishevelment. Between her thighs sits a faux phallus, bound her hips by more of her ornate ropework.

It’s not a fight. It’s a game, and she’s already won. His pupils are blown wide with lust so deep she could bathe in it. So she does, cupping his chin so she might admire her own vain reflection in his voracious, silver stare.

“Ara? My sweet little beastie. I wouldn’t have had to tie you up if you hadn’t fought so hard.” Venom drips from her sugary cooing. It’s rewarded with a glare, one that stokes the fire in her. He’s doing this on purpose. He’s making it fun to break him. She crams her thumb against his lip, nail clacking on his teeth as she pries his jaws apart. His gagging goes unheeded when she shoves her fingers into his mouth, feeling daringly along the points of his sharp teeth, and pressing down on the slickness of his tongue when it coils around her fingers.

The appendage tickles the sensitive flesh between her fingers and she giggles, a twisted, malicious sound. It’s almost a sweet moment, with his eyes upturned so pretty and his lips puckered around her fingers like those colorful little treats the Domans love to eat. That is, until she grips him by his roots and shoves his head down, ripping her fingers from his maw. “Suck.” She commands, smearing his own saliva along his cheek when she reaches for his horn. “Show your goddess how much of a whore you are, and maybe she’ll reward you.”

He fights, if only for a brief and vain battle. It’s cute to watch him turn his face away to let her cock smear against his cheek with a low, rumbling growl. Then his lips part, dragging his teeth along the length before his mouth finally opens to lap at it. He’s drooling like a rabid beast, and it makes a deliciously lewd, wet sound when he gobbles down the length. Its when he gags and spasms does she know she’s sunk far enough. Fingers reigning him in by his hair, she makes a mockery of fucking his mouth for a few moments, grinning madly at his choked gags and the saliva dribbling down his chin to puddle on the floor.

When she withdraws, his cheeks are flush and he’s heaving for breath, jaw slack like a ravenous dog. Like a dog, he bares his teeth at her, all sharp canines that could rend her flesh if he truly desired. Maybe another night. For now she steps away, sauntering out of his line of sight. There’s the clatter of a lid, and the bubbling of something viscous and wet.

Whereas Baatu threw around his weight, Momoe overcame with wit.

And foul play.

For every great beast has a blind spot, and every fortress a weakness.

She slips her fingers into him with a sneer, twisting them so the jelly squelches loudly. Baatu’s back straightens, his entire being frozen. He doesn’t know his own blind spots, his own weaknesses.. Chi’s unpredictable, and he knows that, and it scares him. She’s learned his body all too well over the past few months, and she could either make or break him. She chooses the later, delving her fingers in deep and pumping them slow until she’s practically cupping his rear.

“Do you want to be full, Baby?” She delights in the shiver that her voice leaves along his spine, and in the way he clenches so tightly around her fingers.

“Will you be a good boy for me?”

With her foot, she kicks his legs further apart, leaving him in a straddle that has his thighs quaking. He doesn’t have much of a foothold here, but it brings his hips down exactly where she needs them.

Someday, she’d ask Alicen about that slime, or perhaps an enchantment that allowed her to feel all the joy of being a man. For now her pleasure lies in Baatu’s raw moan as she slips the rubber toy into him. In the broken gasps when she rides him slow and steady, like time doesn’t exist and he’s her strung up mammet.

Her hips bottom out against his rear and she feels more than she hears the dragged out, fucked out moan. It rumbles through his body, until it vibrates against her hands.

No matter how he fusses and begs, she keeps her movements slow, winds him up until he’s practically purple against the knots keeping his orgasm captive.

“Do you want to cum?” She purrs, voice full of dark lust as she drapes herself along his back so the rings in her nipples press against his flesh. His body vibrates beneath her with strain, and hiccups when he breaks. Between sobs he ascents, pretty little pleas from his raw throat, tears staining the floor beneath him.

It’s a bit of a stretch, but she reaches around him to snag her finger in the ropes, ignoring his pained whine when she wrestles the loops from around his cock. It’s hot, firm, and heavy in her palm, the scalding heat igniting sadistic satisfaction in the darkest pits of her soul. A soft squeeze has him crying out, jerking in his bonds.

“You’re so close, what a good boy, Baatu. See? You’re so good, I’ll even call you by your name. Aren’t I so nice? Say I’m the best fuck you’ve ever had and I’ll grant all your wishes.” She coaxes, rocking onto her toes to rock him against her cock.

He comes apart like the sand in the hourglass that resides on her desk. He sobs around her name, thrashing and trembling until his pretty hair is all tangled in the ropes and on his horns. He begs, broken down like she’s the only thing granting him air and his lungs are starved of it. It’s only when his breath hitches on a cry does she hesitate.

“Baatu, what color are you?”   
Her voice is authoritative yet motherly. She presses her palm against the scales spanning his back, rubbing reassurance into his heated flesh. His pause is too long, too heavy, bringing anxiety roiling in her gut.

There’s the faintest wet sound of his tongue moistening his lips, and of tears choking his next inhale. “Purple.”

Purple is good. It’s her favorite color.

“Are you certain?” She presses, reaching up to stroke his hair back away from his face. She can’t see his expression like this, and for the first time that actually bothers her. Normally contortions of desperation or agony made her drunk on power, but now she grits her teeth, trying to find some trace of reassurance within his prone body.

His head lifts finally, nodding with a drunken bobble. “Yes, I’m not blue yet, Mistress, I promise, I swear. But...”

But he’s getting there. Maybe not physically, but his heart and his head aren’t as sturdy as the rest of him. He’s cunning, built on hunting and seducing- but damn her if his heart wasn’t a tender thing.

“I won’t let the sun set on you.” She promises in a whisper, pressing a tender kiss to his shoulder blade. His raw, cracked laugh gives her the reassurance she needs. The coddling touch to his hair sinks to the roots, yanks it back until his spine bends in ways that makes her envious.

Her grip becomes the reigns, yanking him back on her cock until he cries. She fucks hard, and deep, keeping the slow build up until the ropes are practically the only thing keeping him upright.

“Good boy, good boy,” The mantra whispered by his horn, barely heard over his ravage growl. Her teeth mark his neck, his shoulder, digging deep until his nervous system is over shot like the victim of a thaumaturge’s thunder spell. When he cums untouched, she cups him in her hand just to feel how hard his climax takes him. There’s no ceiling rattling cry, or trembling growl. It’s just the suffocated exhale of the vowels of her name, as if his tongue forgot how to work for that split second.

And then he’s limp, dangling from the ropes and shaking like there’s ice in his veins. It’s a damn waste of good rope, but when she draws herself out of him, she wrenches apart one of the knots with a decorative blade. Carefully, she lowers his weight to the floor with her own, until he’s face down in her lap and heaving for breath.

Anxiously she combs his hair with her fingers, then begins untangling him from her web bit by bit. All the while she’s listening for his breath, watching the rise and fall of his back until it evens out when he’s freed.

“Starshine,” She whispers, urgently combing his braids away from his face and patting his cheek. “Starshine, what color are you?”

Her answer comes as he finally rolls his face to the side, enough for her to see patchy lipstick and drying tear tracks. His face paint is a travesty, smeared across his features like a drowned raccoon. It’s only his open mouthed smile that brings a breath of relief to her lungs.

“What color is uh... peach?”

“Peach is a color in itself. Do you mean pink?”

He pauses, lips closing as his jaw flexes pensively. He finally makes an “Mm” sound.

Pink. Good. She hates pink. It looks awful on both of them. But it means he’s in a good place and so she sighs, draping herself over him protectively.

“Good, good boy.”

They slip slowly back into the stream of time, the sands in her hourglass dwindle to nothing and the lullaby of rainfall against the window begin to make a sound again. In that time she lets him just breathe, rubbing her hands soothingly along the marks her ropes left behind on his skin. They’re beautiful, and she enjoys them far more than the welts left behind by throttling him with the riding crop.

When his mind finally rejoins his body, they lie together on her futon, his body draped in alpakulu down and silks as she cradles him to her breast.

“Mistress, what color are you?” The question startles her more than the tender touch of his fingers as they comb into her impossibly long tresses, until they drape over him like a silver curtain. His smile is sore but giddy, his eyelids drooping with the effort to stay open. “I scared you, didn’t I?”

With a huff, she gently bats his hand away, coaxing it to rest over his chest instead, then upturns her nose. She ignores his quiet, amused chuckle.

“I’m obviously golden.”


End file.
